


Who I am Hates Who I've Been

by Sierra_Butterfly



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-11-06 17:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11041332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierra_Butterfly/pseuds/Sierra_Butterfly
Summary: Roan and Clarke are special agents with the CIA. They are the best of the best. They have seen each other around the HQ, but have never had a proper conversation, until now. Now, they have two weeks to learn to work together before they will be infiltrating  A.L.I.E. Their survival depends on each other. The world depends on them.





	1. Apocalypse Please [Muse]

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, I told myself I would wait to post this until I finished my other Roarke 'fic, but I couldn't help myself. [I promise I'm still going to update Dark Side of His Sun as well, but this was already written and I haven't had a day off from work yet]. 
> 
> Anyways, this 'fic is very AU compared to my other 'fic, but I hope you guys enjoy :)
> 
> Also for reference, Clarke is 26 and Roan is 30.

Contrary to the weather forecast, rain came down in heavy sheets and puddles quickly formed little streams in place of walkways. Water trickled down the stairs leading to the subways and mixed with dirt long since settled, resulting in an ugly, muddy brown appearance that seemed oddly befitting for the day, or at least to Clarke Griffin. 

Clarke stood among the crowd of people waiting for their train, but unlike many others, she was dressed for the weather with sturdy black jeans and a warm, navy blue parka. A matching umbrella was clipped to her hip, while her wavy, golden hair was mostly dry and tied up in a neat bun, only a couple strands framing her face. She wore almost no makeup, save for a subtle pink gloss on her lips and a dash of foundation to cover up the circles beneath her eyes. 

Despite her attempts to disguise her weariness, it showed in the subtle slouch of her shoulders and the lackluster appearance of her usually bright, crystal blue gaze. Clarke sighed and glanced briefly at the watch on her left wrist, the silver band glinting with the dim lighting. Her father gave it to her one year ago, and since then she had worn it nearly every day, despite its clunkiness on her slim wrist. 

The familiar rumbling of the approaching train drew her attention and she straightened ever-so-slightly, her gaze sweeping over the crowds and determining whether she would get a spot without ending up crushed against the door. The train halted and the throngs of people started lurching forward, impatient for those trying to exit the train to do so, meanwhile Clarke stayed back. It was no real skin off her back when she realized she would not be getting on this train, and she only managed mild annoyance when she noticed the next train was estimated to arrive in eighteen minutes. 

_Maintenance_ , she thought absently, and with a small sound in the back of her throat she left, grateful for her infinite-use metrocard, courtesy of the CIA, and went to hail a taxi. 

Fifteen minutes later she was walking into headquarters, flashing her ID badge before going beyond the clearance gate. Another glance of her watch let her know she had five minutes before her meeting with the director. 

She decided against wasting any time going to her own office and took the elevator to the eleventh floor, where she was met with more security clearances before she finally reached the director’s office. 

It felt peculiar standing at attention in civilian clothes, but Clarke saluted nonetheless, drawing her shoulders back and her chin up. After only a fraction of a moment the man behind the desk nodded. “At ease, Agent Griffin.” 

“At ease” translated to a slight bend to her elbows and knees and some of the tension leaving her muscles, but she kept her head held high and her shoulders straight. Some may perceive her lingering tension as unease in the presence of the director, but she had not felt uneasy around the man in months--not since she and his son, Wells, had become friends. Instead, she was half-assedly trying to disguise her lack of sleep and hangover, but the too bright fluorescent lights overhead added too much droop to her eyelids to really pull it off. 

She heard a snort to her right and flicked her gaze accordingly to find a man a couple inches than her leaning against the wall. His dark brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, giving clear view of his sharp cheekbones and piercing blue gaze. She was almost certain his hairstyle was against protocol, but instead of irritation at the breach she found herself repressing an amused smile. He smirked at her and his eyes crinkled. “Hello, Princess” he greeted, his voice a deep baritone. 

At the once familiar moniker her stomach folded in on itself and pain streaked through her chest, but she held her composure well enough that she suspected not even Jaha noticed the slip. Carefully, she diverted her attention from the mystery man and focused on the director, whose dark orbs held thinly veiled pain. “Sir, I was told you have a mission for me?” 

Jaha nodded and gestured for both of them to sit in the leather chairs in front of his too large mahogany desk. “I have a mission for both of you: together.” 

Clarke glanced at the man to her right again and tried to soothe the furrow that formed between her brows. Some inkling of familiarity sparked in the recesses of her mind, though she suspected it may be due to the curved scars on either temple: tokens from a mission gone south. Though perhaps she had seen him before, maybe even shared small talk with him. 

Either way, she had no clue what his name was. But if they were working together then she figured he was a special agent, same as she. 

She glanced back at Jaha and considered how to ask ‘who the hell is this?’ without sounding like a total bitch, but before she could, the mystery man cleared his throat and held out a calloused hand. “I’m Roan,” he introduced with that same smirk. “You’re Clarke Griffin.” She shook his hand and amusement tinged with bitterness flashed in his eyes. “We’re the best of the best.” 

_Roan?_ Clarke thought absently, recalling stories that she had heard of the man. Not only was he rumored to be one of the best, but like she, he was one of the youngest. 

“Right,” Jaha said, drawing both of their attentions. “Now that introductions are out of the way,” the man reached across the desk and handed them two manila folders, each with their respective names in bold, red print near the top. “If you’ll turn to page three, you’ll see that your target is A.L.I.E. As I am sure you’re both aware, they are the largest, international organized crime group. Recently, we received intel that they are distributing nuclear weapons to countries currently at war. Moreover, we have intel that they are camouflaging themselves in various locations as the ‘Grounders.’ A so-called mining company. We believe they are planting nuclear bombs that will explode by their control. We also suspect that these bombs will serve as bargaining chips to get countries to do whatever A.L.I.E. wants them to do.” 

“Your job is to infiltrate A.L.I.E. as a wealthy couple interested in funding their business for immunity. You need to collect any tangible evidence of their illegitimate business that you can and get it to our agents already stationed in the area. They’ll act with what they have, and in the meantime we’ll be trying to hack into their control systems and shut down their end of the operation.”

All of this Jaha managed to deliver with a clinical tone and a steely look in his eyes, but whenever he turned to the next page, his poker face flickered. 

Clarke understood almost immediately. In small print were the words “S-Class Mission.” She almost laughed as she focused on the small print, as though typing the words in smaller print than the rest could detract from the implications. 

“Both of you have been selected for this job because you are, as Agent Roan said, the best of the best.” He paused. “I understand neither of you have worked with a partner in some time, and for that reason, I have cleared you for two weeks paid leave to get comfortable with each other. The success of the mission is reliant on your ability to appear as a couple, and moreover, to work as a team.” 

Jaha considered both of them with a sad look in his gaze before he templed his fingers and sighed. “I would advise you take care of any estate or executive affairs prior to beginning this mission, if you both accept” the man sent a particularly heavy look at Roan before he stood. 

Neither of them spoke. 

Clarke glanced at Roan to find his eyes were squeezed shut and he was rubbing his temple, as though he were plagued by a migraine. She turned her attention back to the manila folder. Whenever she flipped to the last page she saw their “identities” for the mission. 

_Why are we only given two weeks?_ She worried her lower lip as her mind raced. Usually missions like this would involve a month of preparation. A month of getting acclimatized to one another. 

_Best of the best…_ Clarke looked up sharply as her mind finished processing what her subconscious had just barely grazed the thought of. “There are bombs planted in the U.S., aren’t there?” She asked quietly. It was the only reason to cut their prep time. It was the only reason to risk the success of the mission: if there was no time to wait. 

A short nod. 

“Enough to decimate us?” 

Jaha coughed shortly. “There are enough bombs to leave the 96% of the world uninhabitable. Almost everyone would die except for the few A.L.I.E. deems good enough to stay in one of their bunkers.”

Her mind was made up. “I accept,” Clarke said a moment before Roan consented as well. 

“Thank you both,” Jaha said, and Clarke tried to repress the feeling in the pit of her stomach that they were being sent to die. 

At once, Roan and Clarke stood, but before they could leave Jaha stood as well. “Clarke,” he said quietly, and slowly she brought her gaze to his, confused by the breach of professionality. “Wells doesn’t know.”

Ah. “You want me to keep it from him.” she said slowly, precisely forming each syllable. 

She understood though, and whenever Wells’ father said nothing in response, she merely nodded and followed Roan out the door. 

_Best of the best_ , she thought with a small inward sigh. _If anyone can do it, it’ll be us._


	2. Behind Blue Eyes [The Who]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, I promise I haven't abandoned this...or Dark Side of His Sun. 
> 
> Honestly, I've just been reconsidering a lot of things in my life right now, and I suspect I'll be making a big change soon. All the thinking has made it difficult to write, but hopefully that'll get better soon too. 
> 
> Anyways, here's a relatively long chapter. I'll be updating my other story, Dark Side of His Sun, around the 22nd or so. Fortunately, most of my classes have been cancelled on Monday and my third job doesn't start until next Monday, so I'll have quite a bit of time to write. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy.

****

**Chapter One**

Behind Blue Eyes - [The Who]

The elevator felt claustrophobic, Roan thought as he forced himself out of his head and fixed his attention on the blonde haired woman standing a couple inches in front of him. She stood stiffly with her own inner musings, her face obscured by the few strands that framed her face. In the closed space he could just smell her floral perfume.

Roan cleared his throat and the woman jumped slightly, glanced over her shoulder at him with a small pucker between her brows. “If we’re supposed to pull off being a couple then we can’t ignore each other for the next two weeks,” he said slowly, acutely aware of the tension rolling off her. It permeated the distance between them like a tangible force and threatened to suck the air of his lungs. 

The pucker deepened and her lips twisted, but after a moment she nodded. “You’re right,” she admitted, a fraction of her tension and hostility slipping away. 

A ding resonated in the space between them and Clarke spun on her heel, starting to walk out of the elevator, but Roan grabbed her wrist and brought her to a halt. “Wait, Princess.” 

The moniker earned him a glare, but he found it difficult to take her pissed off look seriously in spite of the kitten-like quality of her. “Don’t call me Princess,” she told him and wrenched out of his grip with surprising strength. 

Roan rolled his eyes but followed her as she continued to walk down the carpeted hallways. Even though his office was on the same floor as hers, he rarely visited it. Instead, he spent most of his time keeping up his skills and working outside of Headquarters. Whereas before he almost constantly had missions, his reputation and success rate had put him on standby until more critical cases came in. It left him with a lot of downtime; most of which was devoted to taking care of his mother--Queen Nia, as she preferred. 

When Clarke finally managed to unlock her office door she swung it open and left it wide enough for him to slip in as well. The moment he was inside, Clarke closed the door and went to her desk, ruffling through papers and drawers in search of something. Meanwhile, Roan’s gaze was fixed on a steel framed photo of a younger Clarke and a man with dark, wavy hair and a broad smile. 

Agent Bellamy Blake. 

“You were his partner,” he said quietly, unsure if he was really saying it to her or to himself. 

Roan had heard stories about Agent Blake’s death two years ago, but most of the stories had been shut down quickly. Very few from other headquarters even knew the truth behind the agent’s death, since it hadn’t resulted in failure for the mission. That was only a short time before Roan transferred to the New York headquarters, and no one would even mention Agent Blake’s name. 

Slowly Roan brought his gaze from the photo to Clarke, only to find unfiltered pain staring back at him. “I haven’t worked with a partner since Bell,” she said quietly and looked down at her hands. 

“What happened?”

“I used to do everything by the book,” she continued, her tone self-accusatory. “I practically worshiped protocol. But protocol got him killed. I got him killed.” 

He said nothing. He had no idea what to say, given that he didn’t even know what happened. He hadn’t even known Clarke was his partner. After a moment he sighed. “I’m sure you did what you had to do.” 

“I did what protocol told me to do. I know better now.” 

He felt the urge to comfort her, but instead he stepped back and leaned against the wall. Distractedly he nibbled on his thumb nail while he considered what he could say to move beyond the cloud of awkwardness between them. Before he could, Clarke went on. 

“If there’s any way that you and I can complete this mission and get out alive, then I will try my damnedest to make sure it happens.” 

In that moment Roan could see precisely why she was one of the best; the pure determination staring back at him even set his own apprehensions at ease. He offered a rare, genuine smile and nodded. “Same here, Prin--Clarke.” He glanced at the clock on the wall and chewed on his lower lip. It was still early in the day. “Look, I’m shit at relationships,” he admitted and rubbed the back of his neck. “But it sounds like we’re going to be spending a lot of time together these next couple of weeks.”

Clarke’s expression grew weary and she leaned against the edge of her desk. “I know,” she said quietly. “Whose place are we staying at?” she asked after a moment. 

Horror struck through his chest at the idea of Clarke staying at his one bedroom apartment and he tried desperately to remember if there were any old Chinese takeout boxes on the floor of the living room. He wasn’t a slob, by any means, but he rarely entertained guests. Occasionally he would bring home a woman from the bar for a one night stand, but nothing more. 

“Why don’t we switch?” she suggested after a moment of shared silence. “One week we’ll stay at my place, the other we’ll stay at yours? It wouldn’t hurt to see a bit into each others’ living styles if we’re supposed to be a couple.” 

“Stay at yours first?” he asked and absently watched her gather a couple more things from her desk. 

For the first time he noticed how remarkably dry she was, despite the weather outside, and he smirked to himself. Leave it to the princess to have packed an umbrella on a day with a ten percent chance of precipitation. In contrast, his hair was still dripping down the collar of his shirt and chilling his back with cold little trails. 

Whenever the woman looked up, Roan realized his gaze had aimlessly rested on her cleavage and he forced his eyes back up to hers to find amusement twinkling back at him. “Sure, but I’ll need to clean up the bedroom a bit. I imagine we’re sharing a bed?” 

_Fuck_ , Roan thought, but through clenched teeth he nodded. His expression must have revealed his thoughts, because he was rewarded with quiet laughter. Almost absently he wondered why she needed to clean up the bedroom in particular, but he shoved the questions to the side and straightened. 

“Do you need anything from your office?” Clarke asked him, and he shook his head. His office was almost totally bare, save for the desktop computer the department allocated him, but he often forgot his password for it due to disuse. Roan specialized in espionage and combat, whereas Clarke, from what he had heard, specialized in recon and field technology. Together, they covered most areas of Operations. 

“We can stop by your place so you can pack a bag for the week. Is there anywhere you need to go today?” 

_Mother_ , Roan thought, but then shook his head. She would be fine until tomorrow, and he doubted anything would change with her condition in the meantime. “Let’s pick up some beer,” he suggested as they left Headquarters and scurried under Clarke’s umbrella to the nearby subway station. 

Clarke wrinkled her nose. “You can drink the beer, I’ll grab something else,” she told him before sheathing the umbrella and swiping her metro card. 

“Baby,” Roan teased, earning him an eye roll and a quiet huff.

### 

It took them four hours of subway delays and travel time to his apartment in Bronx to hers in Brooklyn, before they finally reached Clarke’s apartment complex. As they shuffled to the elevator, carrying a stuffed duffel bag and several bags of alcohol, they earned a couple peculiar looks from fellow tenants, but only one said anything to them. 

He was an older man, with sparse, grey hair, deep wrinkles, and a kind smile. “Are you dating again, Clarke?” 

Neither of them spoke for a moment, and Roan started to say ‘no,’ but before he could Clarke nodded, a faint blush to her cheeks. “Yeah, I guess I am.” 

“Good,” the man glanced at Roan, then looked back at Clarke with a twinkle in his eyes. “I like this one better.” he teased, bumping shoulders with Clarke before exiting the elevator on the third floor. 

Once the elevator doors closed, Clarke chuckled to herself, shooting a wry look at Roan. “He likes you,” she told him with a conspiratorial grin. 

After a moment passed and her smile did not, Roan rolled his eyes. “I feel like I’m missing something,” he said. 

Clarke chose not to elaborate until they were behind her apartment door, at which point she said, “he thinks you’re cute,” before turning around and hauling the alcohol to the kitchen. 

Roan stood still for a moment, scowled, then shook himself and proceeded to walk through her apartment as though it were a minefield.

It was immaculate, as though everything had recently been swept, mopped, and dusted within the past twenty-four hours. As an afterthought Roan went back to the entryway and slipped off his shoes before padding after Clarke to the kitchen. 

He found her rummaging under her cabinets until an avalanche of pots and pans set his ears roaring and he winced. He caught the woman swearing loudly as she haphazardly shoved cookware back in the cabinet, holding the pot she wanted like it was a snake. 

“I hope spaghetti is good for dinner,” she said without turning around. “It’s about the only thing I can cook. Probably the only food I have that isn’t microwaveable too.” 

Clarke opened another cabinet and Roan caught a glimpse of rows upon rows of Chef Boyardee cans and instant ramen. “Spaghetti is good,” he said after a moment, fixing her with his signature smirk. “I’m going to teach you how to cook though.” 

The woman glared at him but it was half-hearted and they both knew it, so instead she pointed him towards a drawer and commanded him to fetch supplies for her while she started boiling the pasta. 

Roan found they worked easily enough together, and before long they had a passable dinner of spaghetti and “homemade” garlic bread. He couldn’t help a snort whenever she told him she didn’t have a toaster, which resulted in her grilling the slices of bread (and blackening them) before buttering them and pouring far too much garlic powder on each. 

Once the dishes were placed in the dishwasher, Roan asked her if she had any shot glasses, to which she offered a Cheshire Cat grin. “I used to be a bartender.” She opened yet another cabinet and revealed everything ranging from shot glasses to pina-colada glasses. 

“So you don’t have a toaster,” he said and snatched a couple glasses, “but you have enough glassware to open your own bar?” 

“Priorities,” she said with that same grin still plastered to her lips. 

Roan chuckled. “So I’m working with an alcoholic?” 

“Hey now,” she said, but her protest died on her lips as she went to the fridge to collect a couple bottles. “Want lime wedges?” she asked instead. 

He rolled his eyes but conceded. After she sliced a couple limes they carried the stash to the second-hand couch that was a horrible, crimson red. Roan sighed contentedly as he nestled back into the cushions, finding it shockingly comfortable. 

“So what did you have in mind?” Clarke asked whenever it seemed he was content to just sit there. 

He sat up and set to work pouring six shots for each of them; three rum and three tequila. 

“Hangovers, apparently,” she grumbled, but he ignored her complaint and instead fixed each tequila shot with a lime wedge. It was Dragonberry rum, and he figured it would be fine enough on its own. 

“Two things,” he said. “Ten questions and Never Have I Ever.” 

“Ten questions?” 

“It’s like twenty questions, but no one has the patience for that.” 

“Are we in college again?” she asked, but nevertheless pulled her legs up and sat Indian style, facing him. “Fine, never have I ever gone skinny dipping.” 

Roan laughed outright at that and took the first of his rum shots. He was surprised to find the Dragonberry rum packed a decent punch to it, but he supposed that may just be because he wasn’t really a shots type of guy. “One year ago,” he started explaining himself, recalling one of the few, positive memories he had of him and his ex-girlfriend, Echo. They had been together for six months whenever she whisked him to a hidden cove on Staten Island. “We got caught,” he admitted sheepishly. 

Once Clarke had stopped laughing at him, he smirked again, his curiosity getting the best of him. “Never have I ever kissed the someone the same sex as me.” 

Clarke took her shot like a pro and smiled cheekily at him. “What? I was a bartender.”

“What does that have to do with kissing a woman?” 

“Nothing,” she said, beaming, “it has to do with me being a heavyweight. The woman was Lexa--I’m bi, by the way.” 

And as the night wore on, Roan felt himself grow more and more inebriated, while the blonde haired princess seemed practically immune to the alcohol intake. 

Two shots later, because by now they had both taken their six shots during Never Have I Ever and were just drinking for the hell of it, Roan discovered she was, in fact, very drunk. Clarke stood up, prepared to find them another bottle of alcohol, but she teetered on her feet and fell into Roan’s lap, her hip nudging dangerously close to his manhood. He flinched and held her at arm’s length until she could stand, albeit wobbly, on her own. 

“Maybe we should go to sleep instead, eh, Princess?” he cursed himself internally whenever he noticed her eyes flash with pain, but like smoke it was gone in an instant and she merely smiled at him. 

He decided that in the morning he would ask why the nickname was off limits, but for now he guided the stumbling Clarke Griffin to her bedroom, where she promptly stripped her shirt and pants. Before she could undo her bra right in front of him, Roan turned away, trying to ignore the way his body reacted to the woman boldly stripping. “Maybe you should grab a shirt,” he suggested mildly. 

“I usually sleep naked,” she told him with a small shrug, but she stumbled her way to her closet and pulled out a random shirt that was really a loose fitting crop top and then stumbled over to her bed. 

Roan stood near the door, contemplating what his best course of action would be, whenever he caught Clarke staring at him expectantly. “We’re sharing a bed, remember?” she asked, and for a moment he puzzled over the lack of slurring. His own tongue felt thick in his mouth and his vision was fuzzy on the edges. “Take your pants off,” she instructed. 

With brief reluctance, Roan unbuttoned his pants and shucked his shirt, leaving him in only a pair of boxers before he joined the woman under her cherry blossom comforter. 

Content, apparently, with him beside her, the woman drifted off to sleep quickly, quiet snores lulling him into his own dreamless slumber.


End file.
